


His type

by qwertysweetea



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Will Graham, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Sleepy Cuddles, Talking To Dead People, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: Frederick stood behind the Doctor, propped on his cane with one of those cocky smiles that consumed his face beyond which would be considered acceptable in any professional setting. “Keeping me all to yourself?” The smug was thick in his voice too. “Worried they’ll try to take me away?”“So I talk to myself sometimes.” Will replied dryly. “It’s not like I’m swamped with riveting conversation.”[Post-Series 3]Will's second stay at BSHCI is made somewhat better and worse by an unexpected cellmate. Talking to dead people isn't too unfamiliar for Will.





	His type

**Author's Note:**

> I've adored this pairing for a while and I really wanted to write something for them but series 3 made that a little hard so... this happened.
> 
> If you're reading for Hannigram then you'll be disappointed. It's briefly discussed as something that has happened in the past but nothing else. Sorry. The Willton is pretty fluffy though.

“Nobody wanted to believe you actually did it. Whenever they visited me they brought these wild theories with them, that you’d died taking him out or you were keeping him from killing. Always a martyr. Didn’t want to think you were the man they all feared you were but they did anyway; no matter how much hope they pushed forward it couldn’t hide just how much they were hurting.

“Accept me. I believed in you. I died believing in you.”

“Don’t Fre-”

The man continued as though Will hadn’t spoken, his voice calm and collected. No anger or resentment, no hurt. He spoke as though he was stating simple facts. “That there was enough of you left to stop the monster from consuming you while. ‘Two killers’, the papers had said. Of course, you’d have to be smart about it. Killing isn’t necessarily the evil at work when you victim is a right-of-passage to the full trust of the real monster. Along with being a horrific person, of course.

“Turns out you were losing the fight all along. How disappointing. I always hoped you wouldn’t be one to mock dead men but here you are, making a fool out of me, even now.”  
Will listened with teeth gritted against the pressure in his head, and hoped that he could think loud enough for Frederick to hear.

“How long did it take for you to realise that letting you kill him was not nearly enough to make his companionship tolerable? How long did it take for the post-kill bliss to fade enough for you to realise that nothing would ever be enough to push out that last, nagging bit of humanity you have?”

It was painful. Worse, it was raw.

“Leave me alone. Please.”

When Will dared himself to look up from the spot he’d been fixed on, Frederick was gone.

*

When Will woke up from his nightmare, Frederick was sat on the floor with his back against the bars and hands hanging loosely over his knees.

He threw his blanket off and unrestricted by the sheets, he gulped down the air to remind himself that he wasn’t drowning. Sweat ran down his face, droplets clung to his hair and had soaked through his jumpsuit. The heat was agonising, burning up from the inside, wanting nothing more than for the water in his dreams to put it out.

He had already undone his top few buttons when his fingers stilled, trembling with the effort to slow himself down for a few seconds.

“I’m not really here anymore. You don’t have to be shy, not that you were when you stayed with me before.”

Will didn’t reply, but he did undo a few more buttons on his jumpsuit, allowing it to drop off of his shoulders. It hung heavy at his waist. His scar itched when the other's eyes were on it.

“Married life must have made you modest. Or was that him? He was pretentious. I can’t imagine that differed much in his personal life either. I bet he expected you to pull on a top when you got out of bed. All prim and proper, as things should be. Don't want to make the house look messy.”

Still, Will didn’t reply. He collected a handful of water from his tap, watching it overflow in his hands and run down his forearms in rivets. He wanted it to be soothing like it used to be; when he’d run his hands in the cool water of a stream after fishing, when he washed blood off of his hands. He wanted the cool of the water to draw out the burning heat in his veins before it reached eruption.

“I bet nothing’s been able to dampen the flames in your head for a long time.”

Only then did he make eye contact with the other. Even through the early morning dinginess of his cell the blue and green in Frederick’s eyes shone. “He made me wear a t-shirt during sex. Didn't want to see the scar.”

*

“You’ve been heard responding to external stimuli. Wanna tell me what that’s about?”

Will hated the cage. He hated it more now there was a reason for him being in it. Last time he had the satisfaction of knowing he was innocent as a buffer between him and whoever was on the other side. Now it was just him, them, and the knowledge that he had earned every second trapped in those sessions.

“So I talk to myself sometimes.” He replied dryly. “It’s not like I’m swamped with riveting conversation.”

Frederick stood behind the Doctor, propped on his cane with one of those cocky smiles that consumed his face beyond which would be considered acceptable. “Keeping me all to yourself?” The smug was thick in his voice too. “Worried they’ll try to take me away?”

“Well, there have been some interesting snippets of conversation, from your end at least. Wondering if they could be in any way connected with your recent experiences with Doctor Lecter. What do you think?”

He hated the Doctor as well.

“No falling in love with this one then?” Frederick sounded smugger “And here I thought you had a type.”

Instead of flashing Frederick one of his warning glares, he hardened his stare on the Doctor in front of him. Nervous little man, shaky and sweaty little man. He sat where all three of them had sat like he deserved to be there… like he had earned it.

He wasn't Alana. He wasn't Hannibal. He wasn't Frederick.

Will let the hate grow, low and kindling.

*

“You had the choice, you know. I know you like to think you didn’t but you did. You could have ended it any time you wanted. Killed the Dragon and then put the knife in Lecter’s neck. He would have let you do it. He would have let you destroy him and he’d have loved every second of it, but you didn’t. It was your choice to go with him. After everything he had done, you just didn’t want to see him die.”

“What difference does that make now?” Will hissed back at him, eyes focused hard on the floor of his cell. The tears had dried up a long time ago.

"It doesn't." Calm and collected. No anger or resentment, no hurt. Stating simple facts. "Not anymore."

Will thinks that it could be the only thing that could make him miss tears now.

*

Sometimes Frederick’s company was unbearable; just a reminder of the suffering that followed him, regardless of his intentions. It reminded him of how far he had been willing to go, how much bad he’d been happy to introduce into the world to make it better, and how much he had enjoyed doing it.

Will woke up understanding that _that_ day was not one of those days. They happened every now and again. With the soft flick of his eyes to the empty spot on the cot next to him, he would wordlessly invite Frederick to sit next to him.

He found they could sit more comfortably together now than they ever did in life. He tried to keep those quiet thoughts to himself; Will knew that if he started wondering if he and  
Frederick could have become this comfortable in life then he would start lamenting the fact that they had never had the chance to find out.

However hard he tried, those thoughts weren’t always so quiet.

“I had a soft spot for you, you know.”

“Just for my mind.” Will replied.

“No, not completely.” It sounded honest.

*

There were no surprise visits here. That was one thing that Will supposed he could be grateful for. Far too many times he had found his house unwillingly opening up to others while his mind screamed at him to be alone.

Here he could be alone- his eyes grazed over Frederick’s sleeping form, curled up on his side on the head end of his cot. He could be alone for the most part, anyway. Even then, when he knew who to expect and when to expect them he could prepare for it.

“Hello Will.”

“Doctor Verger-Bloom.”

Alana looked as wonderful as she always had. ‘Aged with stress’, Frederick had chimed somewhere behind him and now he had seen it he couldn’t unsee it. Wrinkles creased her forehead and the corners of her eyes, her hair was a shade darker and lacked a natural shine. To Will, she still looked wonderful. Wonderful but tired.

Guilt flared in his chest; for a few moments, it overcame the anger.

“How are you?”

Will smiled. He tried to make it look genuine.

Alana gave one back but all Will saw was pity.

*

Will found that all of his outside visitors looked at him in the same way that Alana did. It was exhausting, but beyond that it stung. For all that had happened he’d hoped they would be angry. No amount of anger he could subconsciously draw out of them could match his own. Their anger was like walking on neutral ground. Safe.

Frederick met him back in his cell. “How are you?” He repeated, the voice his but the words hers.

Will didn’t feel like smiling.

Frederick’s eyes stared straight into him. All he felt was understanding.

When Will saw Hannibal he used to fill with dread and twisted hope. Now thinking about him made him fill with dread and sorrow, anger and satisfaction. A lot had changed. He couldn’t rely on any of them to understand except for Frederick.

Frederick understood. He had seen him then, even when damaged by infection, drugs and unorthodox therapies. He saw him now, after his betrayal, the murders, the fall… everything.

*

Sometimes, when things felt as though they had been at their worst for a long time, he would wake up with Frederick in his arms, face buried into the back of his neck.

He maintained it did nothing to make it better. It was a lie. Once, or maybe twice, he dared to acknowledge that and smiled to himself for his own deception. There was something oddly satisfying about being able to lie convincingly to himself.

“What are you smirking at?” Frederick mumbled sleepily.

“I was just thinking how right you were.”

“Oh?” Frederick smiled back, amusement taking over his voice through his fatigued slurs. “What about, in particular?”

“I have a type.”

At that Frederick turned to face him, eyes half-lidded and smile more a pout than anything. “You should listen to me more often. I’m a rather perceptive man for someone without an empathy disorder.”

When their lips met, it was like how kissing Hannibal should have felt; it was confusing, not-so-gentle, and just on the right side of awkward. There was no instant click, no dissolving into one another, no body being moved while the mind watched helpless to stop it.

For once Will felt completely in control. It was liberating; he had kissed so few people who made the experience feel more freeing than oppressive.

Frederick smiled big and bright against his lips as though they shared the feeling.


End file.
